


Through the Years

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:18:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8013463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark hadn't wanted a surprise for his birthday, so naturally he got one anyway. (Book universe).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Book universe Mark would turn 60 this year if he were alive, so naturally I'm throwing him a party, whether or not he wants one. Typos are mine, as usual.

Disclaimer: Not my puppets. Just my dance.

  


Wednesday 5 October, 2016

  
“For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health, till death us do part.”.  
Mark Darcy stared down at his wedding ring, twisting the circlet of gold round and round his finger as he wondered how much he—how much any couple—truly considered the portents such promises foretold, the endurance they sometimes demanded of the human spirit. Philosophically, one knew that life held no promise of perfect happiness; yet the trials one might face—financial hardship, illness, death—all seemed nothing more than nebulous wisps of fear on a distant horizon until they materialized, without warning, into thunderclouds over one’s head.  
Life, Mark reflected, had been largely kind to him and to Bridget, though they had certainly faced their share of difficulties. ever the pragmatist, he never, even in his most contented moments, viewed his world through rose-tinted lenses; he had Bridget for that, he thought, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. They had disagreed, of course; they had argued. They had grown, both as individuals and as a couple. Mark had learned to become slightly more adaptable; Bridget, slightly less erratic. Even in their most difficult moments, they saw the embodiment of their love for each other in their two children. Mark and Bridget were both highly successful and esteemed in their respective careers; they had a lovely home and a decently large circle of acquaintances, at the center of which remained their small, tight circle of friends—the urban family, as Bridget still referred to them. They had endured loss—most notably the death of Bridget’s father shortly after the birth of their son, and while ten years had passed, the lingering grief his absence had left in their family remained a vacancy that no amount of time could truly fill. Mark’s own father’s health was indifferent, but both of the mothers, bless them, remained forces of nature not to be reckoned with. Mark sometimes joked that Pam Jones might bury them all. Then, of course, he had had his own brush with death in Sudan, one that, well over eight years after the fact, still made him feel slightly sick whenever he had to leave his family.  
Through it all, Bridget had remained remarkably resilient and self-possessed. She, of course, never giving herself sufficient credit, had attributed that strength to Mark; he, she insisted, was her rock, her foundation, the solid, dependable weight that kept her and the children grounded. Yet she alone knew the tender man behind the cool, exacting nature Mark presented to most of the world; she alone could see the fault lines in his façade, the latticework of cracks and pressure points beneath his skin that he tried so hard to conceal from others, and when those pressure points threatened to burst, when the cracks threatened to split, she alone had held him together. Now, as Mark sat toying with his wedding ring in a cold, hospital room beside his sleeping wife, bleary-eyed with exhaustion and emotion, he was reminded that Bridget, however strong and resilient her spirit, was not invincible. He knew, of course, that he could attribute his lingering fear to the whirlwind of panic the day had brought with it; Bridget would rally, as she always had, like the woman of substance he knew her to be. Allowing himself to smile again, he replayed their last conversation, when she’d insisted that they start to think about how they might celebrate his birthday next month. At the time, and in recent months, he had devoted little if any contemplation to the approaching milestone; today he felt every one of his nearly sixty years, and he wasn’t particularly keen to have anyone reminding him of it. Closing his eyes and leaning his head on his hand, Mark allowed his mind to wander back to those last moments of calm he had spent with Bridget. 

Sunday 2 October, 2016

  
A warm, sleepy blanket of silence lay over the Darcy home; squinting down at his watch as he leaned his back against the kitchen island, Mark knew he needed to hurry if he wanted to make his flight. Normally punctual to the millisecond, he had dallied longer that morning than he would ordinarily have done, checking his suitcase for items he might have but knew he hadn’t really forgotten; making sure his passport was safely secured and easily accessible. He would only be gone for two weeks, he told himself, and not far—only to Paris—but to travel anywhere nowadays invited imminent danger. Then, of course, France had been the target of not one, but several violent attacks in the past year, and the thought of it made the strong cup of black coffee Mark had hastily swallowed swirl sickeningly in the pit of his stomach.  
With another glance at his watch and a jolt of astonishment, he realized that it was nearly 5.30; The combination of an early flight and increased security necessitated that he move quickly if he wanted to arrive on time. Mark admitted to himself, standing alone in the silent kitchen, that he’d been embarking on these trips with increasing reluctance; as much as he still found the rigors of his job intellectually stimulating, he couldn’t deny that the physical demands of frequent travel were beginning to take their toll. Sighing, he left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to peep into the children’s rooms, pausing on the landing to listen for sounds of movement and wondering if he dared wake Bridget. Ordinarily she would have made sure she rose with him to see him off, but she’d hardly stirred when he’d slipped from bed earlier, and he hadn’t the heart to disturb her rest. He crept first into Billy’s room and, trying not to wake him, disentangled the boy from his twisted bedsheets before pressing a kiss in the center of his forehead. Next he visited Mabel, stroking one pink cheek with the edge of his thumb and kissing her blonde head. As he stood gazing down at his daughter, he felt a pair of arms enveloping him and turned to see Bridget smiling sleepily up at him. Slipping her hand into his, he wordlessly guided her into the hall, where they wouldn’t disturb Mabel.  
“I hoped I wouldn’t wake you,” he whispered, pulling her into an embrace and reveling in the weight of her warm, sleepy body pressed against his chest.  
“Really?” Bridget arched a brow. “You were really going to sneak away without saying goodbye? You know the rules, Mark. We never leave without saying goodbye in this house.” Even in the dim light of the hall, Mark could trace the lines of the predictable pout that had formed on her lips. “I ought to have known better,” he murmured.  
In a long-familiar ritual begun after his trip to Sudan, Bridget cradled his face in her hands, holding him in her gaze, freezing the moment in her memory. “Be safe,” she whispered, rising on her toes to kiss him.  
He kissed her twice on the forehead, once each for Billy and Mabel; then gently laid his lips on hers. “I do my best, always,” he replied, “and I love all of you.” He held her close, postponing the moment of separation as he rested his chin on the top of her head. “I’ll miss you, Bridget,” he murmured into her hair.  
“I know. I’ll miss you too. Now go, or you’ll be late.” She rose on her toes again to peck his cheek. “And don’t forget, when you get back, we need to talk about your birthday.”  
“Bridget, how many times have we been over this? I don’t want a fuss.”  
Bridget glared up at him, arms folded. “Well,” she said, “I do.” Mark felt a tightening deep in his chest; he recognized that flash of stubborn determination in her eyes. He had never, in all their years together, with all of his powers of logic, managed to resist that look. Gently he reached for her again, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her.  
“You’ll be late,” came her muffled protest, her lips pressed against his.  
“I know. I ought to have left ten minutes ago.”  
Bridget laughed. “You’ve been married to me for too long.”  
Tilting her head up to gaze directly into her eyes, he whispered, “Not long enough.”

\----------  
So Mark had left with no greater misgivings than the twinge of longing he usually felt when leaving his family and had no inkling of foreboding until this morning, when the phone call had come. After dropping Billy and Mabel at school, Bridget had met with an accident; during Mark’s hurried conversation with Daniel, only fragments of the story managed to penetrate the waves of dizzying panic submerging his brain, something about rainy, slippery conditions, and an utterly inattentive bastard deciding to make a turn without indicating. Bridget would be all right, Daniel had assured him; her injuries, consisting of a fractured rib and some bumps and bruises, were serious, but not life-threatening.  
“The thing is, Mark, can you—I mean, I’m holding down the fort here for now, but it’s you she wants. Aside from anything else, she’s pretty badly shaken up.” Fortunately, Mark hadn’t yet left his hotel for the meetings that had been scheduled for the day, though he would have interrupted a United Nations emergency summit for Bridget. Immediately he had leapt to his feet and begun frantically gathering his belongings.  
“Daniel, where are you?”  
“I’m at the hospital; I’ll pick Billy and Mabel up from school later. They’re all right for now.”  
“Right. Good. I’ll be on the first flight I can get. Tell Bridget I’m coming, and… Daniel?” He swallowed back the hard knot of anxiety constricting his throat. “Stay with her till I get there.”  
“Already on it, Darce.”

When Mark had finally arrived at the hospital late that afternoon, the doctor, Dr. Perry, had hastened to assure him that they were doing everything possible to make Bridget comfortable; the one major complication had been the collapsed lung as a result of her fractured rib, but a routine thoracostomy had been performed, and Bridget would likely be able to return home within 36 to 48 hours as long as her condition remained stable. The fracture would heal naturally within about six weeks, but she should restrict her activity as much as possible. Mark had immediately asked and been told he could see her, though she was still sedated. Daniel had departed after instructing Mark to call if he needed anything, and the friends had shared a quick embrace before Mark went directly to Bridget.  
Now a rustle of movement tugged Mark from his thoughts. lifting his head, he saw Bridget’s eyes open, blinking blearily at her surroundings as she tried to take them in.  
“Bridget.” Quickly he rose and drew nearer, bending over to brush her hair back from her face and rest his hand atop hers. “Bridget, darling, it’s me. It’s Mark. It’s all right. You’re going to be all right. I’m with you. I’m right here.”  
She blinked again; then offered him the ghost of a smile. “Mark,” she whispered.  
“Sh, don’t try to talk. Just rest.”  
“Knew you’d come,” she murmured drowsily.  
Mark leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Of course I did. I won’t leave you. Now rest, love. I’ll be right here.” Resuming his seat, he reached for Bridget’s hand, cradling it in both of his, and when he raised his head, her eyes had closed again.

\----------  
When Bridget reopened her eyes, the reality of her surroundings flooded her senses in a wave of disorienting panic, and she lay still for several moments, trying to steady her labored breathing. Daniel had gone, she realized; perhaps he’d just stepped out to grab a coffee. Yet a vague wisp of memory suddenly floated to the surface. Frowning, Bridget tried to pull it into focus. She thought she’d seen—thought she heard—but it couldn’t be. Shifting her gaze, she smiled with relief; Mark sat dozing in the chair beside her bed, one hand dangling at his side, and she knew her own hand had been cradled in his until he’d nodded off. As much as she hated to wake him, he did look uncomfortable, and she had no intention of letting him hold vigil in that chair all night if he could get a decent rest at home.  
“Mark?” she murmured, reaching over to gently squeeze his knee. He jolted awake, half-rose, saw her, and his face relaxed into a smile as he sank back into his chair. “Oops. Didn’t mean to startle you,” she apologized.  
“Hello, darling,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “How are you feeling?”  
Bridget gave him a tired smile. “Super, thanks.” Mark frowned, and Bridget recognized that crease between his brows; he was trying, and would probably fail to suppress a very disapproving look. He studied her for a moment, opened his lips, prepared to admonish her about making light of the situation when she’d nearly given him a heart attack; instead, he bent and touched his forehead to hers.  
“Oh God, Bridget.”  
“It’s okay,” she said, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “I’m okay. It could have been worse. It could have happened before I stopped for my chocolate croissant.”  
Mark made a sound deep in his chest, halfway between a laugh and a stifled sob, and he quickly turned away, raising a shaking hand to shield his face. “Don’t even—that’s not—oh, for fuck’s sake, Bridget!” Bridget watched, somewhat guiltily, as he endeavored to fight the crazy cocktail of emotions swirling inside him—shock, exhaustion, and relief finally bubbling to the surface in a slightly hysterical laugh. “I really don’t know what I’d do without you, darling,” he said finally, swiping at a tear on his cheek. Bridget felt tempted to join in his laughter but for the fact that even breathing normally hurt like hell at the moment. She rested back against her pillows and studied her husband; his usually crisp shirt looked—there was no other word for it—unMarkishly rumpled; his dark hair, growing ever-more liberally streaked with grey, was disheveled; in the harsh lighting, the lines and creases of his face appeared more deeply etched into his skin. Yet for Bridget, each grey hair, each wrinkle, each worry and laugh line told a story—reminded her, every time she looked into his face, how much they had lived; how much they had shared. The pain in her ribs made leaning over to embrace him difficult, so she settled instead for squeezing his hand.  
“What is it? Do you need something?” he asked gently.  
Bridget smiled. “No, just really, really glad you’re here with me.”  
“I wouldn’t have been anywhere else,” said Mark, returning her squeeze.  
“God, I must have scared the shit out of you though, Mark. I’m really, really sorry. I can’t really even remember what happened; it was so quick. I just remember thinking how glad I was the children were safely at school.”  
“You did,” answered Mark. “Scare the shit out of me, I mean, but I think I’ll get over it. I’m just glad you’re all right.”  
“Are the children okay?” asked Bridget. “Do they know what’s going on? Tell them I’m okay, Mark. I don’t want to frighten them.”  
“Hush, love,” Mark soothed, giving her hand another squeeze. “Daniel is with them. They sounded very full of pizza and ice-cream when I rang earlier, but I should probably pop home and check on things. I can come back once I’ve made certain the house is still intact.”  
“Mark, you’re exhausted; why don’t you just go home? I’ll be fine.”  
Mark hesitated. “I don’t like to leave you here.”  
“I’m being taken care of,” she said. “You, on the other hand, look like Hell.”  
Reluctantly Mark nodded. “I wish I could say I didn’t feel like it. Maybe you’re right, but are you sure--”  
“I’ll be fine,” Bridget said firmly. “Billy and Mabel need you too.”  
“Right, well, I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.”  
As he bent to kiss her, Bridget reached up and took his face in her hands. Raising herself gingerly, she kissed him lightly on the forehead, once for each of her children; then brushed her lips against his. “Tell Billy and Mabel I love them,” she said. “And I love you too, obviously.”  
“Obviously,” murmured Mark, stroking her cheek. “Rest well, my love. I’ll see you in the morning.”

\----------  
“Daddy!” Mark had barely shut the front door behind him when he heard the echo of tiny footsteps and felt his daughter fling her arms round his waist. “Daddy, you’re home!”  
“I am,” answered Mark, crouching to sweep her into his arms. “I missed my Mabel.” As he hugged her to his chest, he inwardly registered his astonishment and relief that by some miracle, or more likely the bribery of sweets, Daniel had managed to convince her to at least get ready for bed; she wore her Snow White pajamas, and her hair smelled faintly of her favorite strawberry shampoo. But for a telltale smear of chocolate on her cheek, she was surprisingly clean. Mark rubbed absently at the smudge with his thumb.  
“Daddy,” said Mabel, clinging tightly to him and pressing herself against his chest, “where’s Mummy? Is she okay? Can we see her?”  
“Mummy has to stay in hospital for a little while, sweetheart,” he replied, stroking her cheek.  
“Because she had an accident with the car?” Mark nodded. Mabel frowned, appearing to give the matter serious consideration before announcing, “I’d take care of her.”  
Mark pulled his daughter close. “I’m sure you would, darling, and I’m sure that once Mummy’s home, she’ll need your help quite a lot.”  
Mabel’s eyes—exact replicas of her mother’s—widened with the awe and delight of the responsibility. “Like a nurse?” she asked.  
“Yes, just like a nurse.” Mark was on the point of inquiring about Billy’s whereabouts when the sound of boyish laughter and scuffling from the living-room answered his question.  
Mabel placed her hands on her hips, glaring in the direction of the sound. “I told them to stop, Daddy,” she said. “But they wouldn’t listen. They’re being very silly,” she admonished, the almost maternal edge to her usually soft tone making Mark chuckle.  
“Yes, well, boys can be very silly sometimes,” he said. “And, I’m afraid, so can your Uncle Daniel. Come. Let’s go see what they’re up to.”  
In the living-room, Daniel appeared to be doing his best to keep Billy distracted, as Mark came upon an obviously intense pillow fight between his son and his best friend. In the act of leaping onto Daniel’s back, Billy glanced up, caught sight of his father, and sprinted across the room. His sweaty face, rumpled hair, and wrinkled pajamas told a tale of mayhem that appeared to have made readying himself for bed rather pointless.  
“Hey, Dad,” he said, giving his father a quick hug. “How’s Mum?”  
“She’s all right; she can come home at the weekend,” said Mark. “I thought you were supposed to be keeping an eye on Uncle Daniel for me,” he added, grinning in spite of himself as Daniel slumped onto the sofa.  
“You knew my qualifications for the position when you appointed me godfather, Darce.”  
“I did,” agreed Mark. “But really,” he added, turning back to his son, “you mustn’t tire Uncle Daniel. He’s getting a bit old for such games.”  
“Hark who’s talking,” Daniel shot back, tossing a cushion at mark, which he dodged and caught just in time. “Not bad, old man,” Daniel quipped.  
“Daddy!” Mabel scolded, hands on her hips again. “You’re being silly now too.”  
“Yes, right,” said Mark, suddenly standing military straight and manufacturing a stern expression. “Daniel, you really ought to set a better example for the children.”  
“I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Darce,” replied Daniel, “but you picked the wrong man for the job.”  
“Dad, is Mum really gonna be okay?” asked Billy, suddenly turning serious.  
“She’ll be right as rain soon,” Mark assured him. “She’ll need to rest and be very careful for a few weeks, but she’ll be as good as new before long. I promise.”  
Frowning, Billy flopped down onto the sofa beside his godfather. “What happened, exactly? I mean, you and Mum always drive really carefully, and you’re always reminding her not to talk on her mobile or read her texts while driving, so if she was paying attention…”  
Mark hesitated, considering the question, but when he met his son’s deeply concerned expression, his resolve to always be as truthful with the children as the circumstances permitted won over any endeavor to shield them from unpleasant news. “I’m sure she was being very careful, but the thing is, sometimes grownups don’t always follow the rules of the road. Even when we do, others aren’t as careful, and that’s why we can get hurt.”  
“Then they shouldn’t be allowed to drive cars if they can’t be careful,” Mabel pronounced decidedly.  
“Well,” said Daniel, grinning at his goddaughter, “that’s it then. Queen Mabel has spoken.”  
“But Mum,” Billy insisted. “It wasn’t her fault then, what happened?”  
“No,” Mark assured him. “it wasn’t her fault.” “And she’ll be okay?”  
Smiling, Mark reached over to ruffle the boy’s hair. “Yes, Superman. I’m sure she will.”  
Billy’s expression cleared, and his face split into a grin. “Oh, good!” Of all the traits Billy had inherited from his father, his concern for others—particularly his mother—made Mark most proud.  
“Right, well,” he said brusquely, “school tomorrow. Uncle Daniel’s given you a treat letting you stay up past bedtime.”  
“But we were gonna watch ‘Frozen’,” Mabel pouted.  
‘For the trillionth time,’ Mark thought. The combination of the day’s turmoil and more sugar than was probably deemed healthy made the likelihood that the children would go calmly and uncomplainingly to bed quite miniscule, Mark realized.  
“We’ll see,” he said. “Run along upstairs and clean your teeth; then come back down and say goodnight to Uncle Daniel and thank him for putting up with you, though I should probably say it’s the reverse,” he added with a grin.  
When Mabel appeared ready to protest, Daniel crouched in front of her. “Now, Queen Mabel, remember what we talked about before?” Mabel glanced quickly at Mark and then, to his surprise, scurried upstairs.  
“How on Earth did you manage that?” He asked.  
Daniel shrugged. “It wasn’t anything, really; I just explained you’d be tired from your trip and worried about Bridget, and they’d make the next few days a bit easier for you if they could just be really, really good.”  
“Crikey, Cleaver. You astonish me.”  
“I might also have bribed them with ice-cream,” Daniel added, chuckling. “I’m their godfather, after all, not their father.”  
“Whatever works, frankly,” said Mark, yawning and dropping into Billy’s vacated spot on the sofa. As he closed his eyes, the day’s events replayed themselves in his mind like a film reel, and a sudden wave of nausea crashed over him. An iron fist seemed to be clenching around his stomach and constricting his chest. Leaning forward, head in his hands, he tried to steady his breathing, aware that he needed to regain control of himself before the children returned.  
“Shit, Mark.” He sensed Daniel take the seat beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, mate. It’s okay. Everything’s okay now.”  
“Christ, what’s wrong with me?” Mark gasped between breaths that caught on the lump in his throat.  
“Delayed shock, I think. Hang on.” Daniel rose and crossed to the liquor cabinet, pouring a generous measure of scotch that he thrust into Mark’s hand. “Come on, Darce. Down the hatch. It’s strictly medical.” Reflexively and obediently, Mark knocked back the alcohol, blinking as it hit the back of his throat and burned away the fog beginning to obscure his vision. “Better?” asked Daniel, pouring himself a drink and resuming his seat.  
Mark nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said, massaging his temples. “I just… I don’t think I really allowed myself to absorb the emotional impact of everything. You called me, and I got on a plane and went straight to Bridget and made sure she was all right, and I knew I had to keep on a brave face for the children and…” As his voice trailed off, Daniel reached over to pull him into a tight hug.  
“You know, it’s okay to let others carry your emotional burdens sometimes, Darce.” Their gazes met for a long moment; despite their past and the rift between them that had taken so long to heal, Daniel was the only person who could truly understand the depth of love Mark felt for Bridget and how much that love had transformed his life.  
“I know I’m being melodramatic,” he said. “I don’t mean to be. It’s just, that was—it was the first time I—I came so close to losing her. I’m being ridiculous.”  
“It might seem that way now,” said Daniel, “but it wasn’t initially; of course you were terrified, more so because you weren’t on the spot and couldn’t assess the situation; you just had my gargled version of it. Any normal person would have been panicking, but you, Mark Darcy,” he paused to give his friend a punch on the arm, “have this annoying habit of not allowing yourself to, as you say, absorb the emotional impact, and now look at the state you’re in. In fact,” he added, “if I know Bridget, she probably did more good comforting you than you did comforting her.”  
Mark grinned. “You’re right. There I was, frantic with anxiety, and she had the heart to make a joke about being able to get her chocolate croissant before the accident, but that’s Bridget. Even as I was ready to feel annoyed with her for making light of the situation, she had me laughing.”  
“Yeah, that’s our little Bridget,” said Daniel. “I still wonder sometimes why she married such a curmudgeonly old wet blanket like you, Darce.”  
Mark smiled. “I don’t know, but I’m certainly glad she did.” Suddenly Mark reached over and grasped Daniel’s hand. “I really am grateful, Daniel, for everything—handling the children, being there for Bridget, I can’t thank you enough.”  
Daniel smiled. “You never need to, Darce.”

After Daniel had left, Mark relented, against his better judgement, and gave into Mabel’s pleas to watch “Frozen,” hoping that the film might mellow her out. Instead, he dozed off about five seconds into the opening credits, resurfacing briefly when he heard Billy wander up to his room with a comic book. When he opened his eyes again, the movie had finished, and Mabel, who had taken it upon herself to cover him in her own favorite pink blanket, had curled up beside him and dropped off with her head against his chest.  
As he gently shifted her weight, she stirred feebly, her eyes popping open. “You fell asleep, Daddy.”  
“I did,” said Mark, sitting up and rolling is shoulders to ease the stiffness that had settled there. “And it’s long past your bedtime now. Come on. Upstairs and into bed with you.” Mabel nodded sleepily, but instead of hopping down from the sofa, she reached up and hooked one arm around her father’s neck. Before Mark could protest, her eyes had closed again; with a sigh, and ignoring the twinge in his lower back, he gathered her into his arms, finding comfort in her warm weight nestled against his chest. He peeped into Billy’s room to find him fast asleep. Gently, trying not to awaken her, he tucked Mabel beneath the covers before quickly retreating downstairs to fetch her requisite glass of water (kitchen, not bathroom, as the princess dictated). He set the glass on the bedside table, switched off the light, and bent to kiss Mabel’s forehead. Just then, her eyes popped open again.  
“Daddy?”  
“What is it, sweetheart?”  
Mabel gazed back at him, biting her lower lip. “Daddy, are you still worried about Mummy?”  
Mark frowned, wishing sometimes that his children weren’t quite so perceptive. “A bit, yes,” he said finally.  
“Is Mummy scared to be alone in hospital?”  
Mark smiled. “Well, it’s not the most fun place in the world,” he admitted. “she’d much rather be here with you, but she’s all right.”  
“Because she’s brave,” Mabel announced proudly.  
His eyes suddenly moist, Mark sat on the edge of the bed, scooping his little girl into an embrace. “Yes, she’s very brave,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Mabel rested her head against Mark’s shoulder, curling herself into the crook of his arm. As he rubbed her back, rocking her gently in his arms, he wondered how many of these nights he’d missed over the years; Bridget would likely tell him, had told him constantly in fact, that he heaped far too much guilt upon himself for the times when work necessitated his absence from home. The children knew his work was important, even dangerous sometimes, and no one could accuse him of being an inattentive father; yet he realized now more than ever that he couldn’t afford to squander these moments. Suddenly lifting her head, Mabel broke into his thoughts. “Daddy, does being brave mean you can’t be scared?”  
“No, sweetheart, of course not,” he said gently. “In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Being brave means you can do what you need to do, or face difficult situations even when you’re scared; if you were never scared, you wouldn’t need to be brave. Do you understand?”  
Mabel nodded hesitantly. “Because I was scared for Mummy,” she whispered. “When Uncle Daniel told us something bad had happened and she had to go to hospital, I thought—I thought--” Tears welled in her eyes, and she tucked her head beneath her father’s chin to hide her face.  
“What is it, princess?” Mark asked, pressing a kiss to her temple. He knew—or at least he hoped—that Daniel wouldn’t have said anything to frighten the children, but his heart contracted again at the thought that he ought to have been there for his family. Though keenly observant and intelligent, both children, Mabel in particular, were still naturally impressionable, and mark could hazard a guess at what a child’s imagination conjured at the sound of words like ‘accident’ and ‘hospital.’  
“I thought—I thought,” sniffled Mabel, “it meant Mummy was going to die. Uncle Daniel said she’d be okay, but I was still scared.”  
“I know, princess,” murmured Mark, still rocking her back and forth in his arms. “And that’s all right. It’s hard sometimes when something scary happens to people we love, because we want to help them, but sometimes the only thing we can do is be brave for them and, well…”  
“Send positive thought vibes?” Mabel finished.  
Mark chuckled at the expression she’d picked up from Bridget. “Yes, exactly. Mummy’s going to need lots of positive thought vibes to help her get well. You can do that, can’t you?”  
Mabel nodded. “She always takes care of us and makes us feel better when we’re sick, and I just want to make her feel better too.”  
Throat tight, Mark pressed his daughter closer. “I know, baby,” he whispered. “I know.” For several more minutes, Mark sat with Mabel, seeking comfort in the act of comforting her, until finally her head dropped onto his shoulder.  
“Daddy?” she murmured as he re-tucked her in.  
“Yes, love?”  
“Is Mummy going to be well in time for your birthday?”  
Mark frowned, uncertain why Mabel would think to ask that question but far too exhausted to contemplate it. “I suppose so,” he said vaguely. “Now really, enough stalling.”  
“So we can have a party!” exclaimed Mabel, eyes brightening. “With cupcakes!”  
“Perhaps,” said Mark, bending to kiss her goodnight. “But that’s enough now. Go to sleep.” He wondered absently about Mabel’s question as he crawled into bed a few minutes later, but the day’s exhaustion overtook him the instant his head found the pillow, and he was fast asleep before he could attempt to unravel the mystery.

Saturday 29 October, 2016

  
Bridget curled her legs beneath her on the sofa and tugged at the blanket Mark had draped over her before kissing her goodbye, pulling it higher around her shoulders; he’d gone off to play squash with Giles, and Billy and Mabel were both with friends for the afternoon. As much as she loved her family, Bridget reveled in the peace of the empty house. Nearly a month had passed since her accident, and she felt remarkably better, in part, she admitted reluctantly, to the fact that since her return home from hospital, Mark had taken obsessive-compulsive command of everything. She had returned to work the previous Monday, though she still needed to restrict her activities until her ribs had fully healed. Her mother was calling every day to receive a bulletin, and Mark, with his usual composure, had handled most of the calls. When Bridget did speak to her, however, Pam sprinkled her chatter with reminders to “be very careful, and don’t overexert yourself, and I hope you’re not having sex, Darling. I know men have needs, but Mark will just have to get on with it until--”  
“Mum!” Bridget had shrieked so violently that she thought she might have cracked another rib, at which point Mark had calmly stepped in, thanked Pam for the call, and immediately burst out laughing when he put down the phone. His amusement at his mother-in-law’s admonition notwithstanding, he monitored Bridget’s movements with almost military-level surveillance. She couldn’t sneeze without him worrying, although, in fairness to him, sneezing did hurt like Hell at the moment. Still, she admitted, sipping from a mug of tea and snuggling deeper into the sofa cushions, Mark’s insistence that she rest as much as possible would help ensure she’d be almost as good as new in a few weeks. As her thoughts drifted through her list of preparations, the phone rang, as if on cue.  
“Hi, Magda.”  
“Can you talk?” Magda asked in a conspiratorial whisper.  
“Mark’s off playing squash with Giles,” replied Bridget. “The coast is clear.”  
“How’s everything going?”  
“I don’t think Mark suspects,” said Bridget, crossing her fingers beneath the blanket. “As long as Mabel doesn’t let something slip, I think we’re safe.”  
“Right.” Bridget heard papers rustling on the other end of the phone and knew Magda was probably skimming a to-do list; even without her recent medical emergency, she was glad to have Magda at the helm; had she been in charge, the house would likely have been scattered with slips of paper containing scribbled notes like “Remember to find notes.”  
“Sharon and Greg are flying in the day before; they’ll stay with Jude,” she said as Magda scribbled at the other end. “Peter’s sending Elaine his itinerary; he’ll stay with his parents. Honestly, Mags, if Mark manages to work out what’s going on, I at least want that to be a surprise; I can’t remember when he last got the chance to spend time with Peter.” Bridget had known very little of Mark’s younger brother—had in fact quite forgotten about his existence until she and Mark had begun dating seriously. She supposed he’d been present at their infamous paddling pool parties, though both of them had clearly been too young at the time to retain any memory of it. Peter, a successful investment banker, had been living in Hong Kong for as long as Bridget could remember, managing to see his brother only every few years or so. They did find opportunities to visit briefly on the rare occasion that their business travels intersected, but Bridget and the children had seen Peter only a handful of times in recent memory. Despite the distance, however, the brothers retained a close relationship, and Bridget knew that, however much Daniel had become a brother to Mark over the years, he missed Peter more than he sometimes let on.  
“Don’t worry about the details, honey,” said Magda. “You just concentrate on feeling better, and just make sure you convince the guest of honor to attend. If I know Mark, he’ll be more worried about you than celebrating his birthday.”  
“You’re probably right,” Bridget agreed. “Hmm, I should probably give a speech.”  
“Just don’t write it in your diary and leave it lying around,” warned Magda. “Remember what happened the last time you left something lying around for Mark to find.”  
“I think,” said Bridget, “to borrow a phrase from Shaz, he stuck his fucking tongue down my fucking throat.”  
“He did,” came another voice from just behind her, “but he’s more than happy to refresh your memory if you’re not clear on the details.”  
“Mark!” Bridget squealed as he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Mags, I’ve got to go.” Hastily ending the call, she turned round to face her husband, prepared to greet him with a disapproving scowl before he bent to do as he had offered. For several moments, she became lost in the warm, familiar taste of him as he delicately touched the edge of his tongue to hers. She couldn’t very easily be cross with a man who, after nearly 20 years, could still make her spine tingle when he kissed her.  
“Damn you, Mark Darcy,” she grumbled, melting against his chest as he sat beside her and wound his arms around her back.  
“It’s nice to see you too, darling,” he chuckled.  
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she pouted. “You startled me.”  
“That much was obvious. Was I interrupting something?”  
Bridget’s stomach gave a nervous wiggle; how much had he heard? “No, no,” she said quickly. “Magda and I were just—just chatting, you know.”  
“Hmm, I see.” Mark hooked a finger in the neck of her sweater and gave it a playful tug. “Bridget, love, you know you’re an appalling liar.”  
‘Fuck! Fuck!’ Bridget thought frantically; he knew something. “Well,” she said, “Magda was thinking, maybe she could host a small dinner party for your birthday; nothing fancy, but she didn’t know if I’d be up to having house guests just yet and--”  
“You won’t be,” Mark interrupted firmly. “Bridget, we’ve talked about this. I was fine with having a quiet dinner with the family before, and I’m especially fine with it now. Besides,” he added, “you’ve never liked those smug married dinners, even after we got married.”  
“Well,” she said, slipping her arms around his neck, “we’ll just have to see what we can do to change your mind.” Before he could protest, she pointedly pressed herself between his legs, catching his lower lip between her teeth as she kissed him. “Convinced yet?” she asked, smiling with satisfaction as a groan of pleasure rumbled deep in his chest.  
“No,” he said huskily. “But I’m willing to be persuaded.” As she pressed her fingers into the base of his neck, rhythmically stroking the spot with the edge of her thumb, she felt his shoulders begin to relax, and he returned her kisses with increasing urgency. He slipped his own hands beneath her sweater, cradling her breasts and bending to place a trail of kisses along the hollow of her throat as she tilted her head back. Of all of the variations of physical intimacy they’d experimented with over the years (and Bridget was sure it had long since become an incalculable black-hole-type number), she loved these times best, when they swiftly and silently obeyed the rhythms of each other’s bodies. Within moments, their clothes lay in an abandoned heap on the floor, and with one hand, Mark gently but firmly pressed Bridget into the cushions while his other hand slipped between her thighs. She recognized the precise hitch in his breathing just before he took hold of her hips; she felt his hands on her waist, felt herself reflexively pivoting forward to meet him, abandoning any precaution until she felt that unwelcome tug of pain in her side.  
“Fuck!” she gasped, wincing and pulling away. Instantly Mark sat up, his face a familiar mixture of concern and self-reproach.  
“Bridget, my God, are you all right? Shit, I completely forgot. What was I thinking?”  
“I’m okay,” she said, her breathing returning to normal as the spasm subsided. When Mark looked unconvinced, she reached over and wrapped her arms around him. “I didn’t mean to scare you; it wasn’t your fault, it was mine. I forgot. It was stupid.”  
Mark sighed. “Let’s try to be more careful,” he murmured, pulling her head to his chest.  
“It’s okay,” Bridget assured him. “The doctor said I’d be able to resume normal activities really soon.”  
At this, Mark chuckled. “Clearly you have a very broad definition of what constitutes ‘normal activity,’ love.”  
“I’m just sorry I, uh, killed the mood,” she said.  
Mark bent and kissed the top of her head. “I’m fairly certain I can find it in my heart to forgive you." 


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark hadn't wanted a surprise for his birthday, so naturally he got one anyway.

Saturday 19 November, 2016

  
A shaft of late-autumn sun crept through the curtains, greeting Mark as he stirred beneath the duvet and reached automatically for Bridget without opening his eyes. Pulling her to him, he rested his cheek against the top of her head and let the gentle rhythm of her breathing lull him back to sleep. He’d just begun to slide back into a doze when he felt her shift beneath his arm. Gently, trying not to disturb him, she extricated herself from his embrace, but the next moment the door burst open with a flurry of footsteps, and a pair of voices accompanied by two thumps on either side of the bed announced, “Happy Birthday, Daddy!”  
“Mabel!” hissed Bridget. “Billy! Daddy’s still sleeping!”  
“Not precisely,” grumbled Mark, grudgingly opening one eye.  
“Oh shit,” Bridget exclaimed.  
“Mummy, you said a swear word,” Mabel scolded gleefully. “No swearing in front of the children.”  
“I’m wondering,” said Mark, “if we could possibly tone it down about 5 decibels. Your poor old dad would appreciate it. Clearly,” he added, offering his wife a tired smile, “they haven’t inherited your talent for waking me with thought vibes.”  
Mabel giggled; then gave Mark a serious look, her mouth pulled down in concern. “Sorry, Daddy. We just thought we’d surprise you.”  
Smiling, Mark sat up, stretched, and pulled his daughter into a hug. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “Thank you very much.”  
“Well,” said Bridget, with an apologetic look at Mark, “maybe we should mollify your dad with his present.”  
“I’ve got it here,” Billy announced, tossing an imperfectly but lovingly wrapped package with a home-made card attached to the blue paper. On the front of the card, Billy had sketched an impressively detailed picture of an owl reading a book; Mark recognized Mabel’s touch in the reading glasses perched on the owl’s beak that bore a striking resemblance to the pair that currently sat on Mark’s bedside table. Below the drawing, Bridget had scrawled the message, “If wisdom increases with age, that must be why dads are so wise. Happy Birthday to the best and wisest dad. We love you.”  
“Very funny,” said Mark, hugging Bridget and each of the children in turn.  
“Open your present now, Daddy!” exclaimed Mabel, bouncing up and down in the center of the bed. The significance of the drawing on the card became clear when Mark peeled back the wrapping paper to reveal a brand-new Kindle eBook reader. Even as he turned to Bridget, one brow raised in curiosity, she held up a hand to silence him.  
“We don’t want to hear it. I know how curmudgeonly you are about reading the ‘old-fashion way’, but in case you haven’t noticed, it’s the 21st century.” In spite of himself, Mark smiled; while Bridget had embraced the minutia of the digital age, Mark, though not technologically incompetent, preferred a more minimalist approach to technology. As much as the connectivity of the internet, smartphones, and tablets increased the efficiency of communication, it also, as with many high-stress professions, blurred the boundaries between his personal and professional life to such an extent that his only recourse for maintaining any degree of sanity was to keep his use of technology to a minimum when possible. Reading was one such area, particularly when he had begun reading to his children. He had always found simple joy in taking Billy or Mabel on his knee and watching their wide-eyed delight as they turned pages and journeyed through the stories together. Billy had gradually taken increasing enjoyment in reading independently, but while Mabel had learned quickly and even enjoyed reading, she would still occasionally forego reading on her own in favor of curling up in Mark’s lap for one of her favorite stories or, more recently, the chapter books they’d begun to take on together. Mabel would, Mark knew, eventually lose interest in the ritual, but for now, he admitted to himself, he remained content to indulge her.  
“It’s actually really cool, Dad,” Billy said now, breaking into Mark’s reverie. “You can put lots of books on and take it anywhere, so you don’t have to worry about carrying heavy books around with you when you travel for work and stuff.” This, Mark had to admit, was one of the perks that had been nudging him toward the switch; minimalist as he generally was, he saw the attraction in anything that had the potential to condense and organize his possessions. It had certainly proven invaluable in Bridget’s case as they were no longer waging a constant battle against overflowing bookshelves with no logical cataloguing system that Mark could discern.  
“I think he’s weakening, Billster,” said Bridget, beaming at their son.  
“And the print is really clear and easy to read,” Billy continued.  
“For when your eyes get tired,” chimed in Mabel. Mark chuckled; count on Mabel to forego delicacy in favor of arguing the perks of his gift.  
“Look. We’ve already loaded a few things on for you.” Billy took the device, powered it on, and handed it back to Mark, who found copies of several of the titles he was currently working his way through as well as a selection of a few of his favorites by Graham Green, and one or two of the legal reference books he consulted most regularly.  
“This really is quite lovely,” he said, surprised as much by his own delight as the degree of thought his family had devoted to the gift.  
“You really like it?” asked Bridget, eyes narrowed.  
“It’s wonderful, love,” he replied, leaning in to hug her. “Thank you all so much.”  
“But Daddy, you didn’t see the best part!” Mabel chirped, seizing the device and pointing to the screen. Directing his gaze to where she indicated, Mark spotted two other familiar titles; The Velveteen Rabbit, one of Mabel’s favorites, and The Wizard of Oz, which they had recently begun together.  
“So we can still read together when you have to go away,” she explained.  
Eyes moist, Mark reached over to pull his daughter into an embrace. “Mabel, I love this. Thank you, sweetheart.”  
“Breakfast!” Billy declared, hopping down from the bed.  
“Mummy, can we have Daddy’s cupcakes for breakfast?” asked Mabel.  
“Mabel!” Bridget chided, “those were supposed to be a surprise! Crème brulee cupcakes,” she added to Mark. “I picked them up yesterday; I thought, since we’re going to Magda’s tonight, they might make a festive breakfast.”  
“Actually,” said Billy, “the bigger surprise is that Mum hasn’t already eaten half of them.” Everyone, including Bridget, burst into laughter, until she suddenly winced and pressed a hand to her side.  
“Bridget, are you all right?” Gingerly Mark placed one hand on the small of her back, afraid of causing her more discomfort.  
“I forgot,” Bridget said shakily. “I guess laughter isn’t always the best medicine.” Mark spared a moment to glare at his wife before turning to the children to ease their obvious worry. Mabel’s eyes were wide with concern, while Billy was frowning deeply at his mother with a half-tender, half-severe expression that Mark suspected mirrored his own.  
“Billy, will you get your mother a glass of water, please? Mabel, go down and start laying the table for breakfast. We’ll be down in a few minutes.” After both children had followed his instructions, Mark rested a hand on Bridget’s back again, reaching with the other for the water glass Billy had left on the bedside table.  
“It’s okay, Mark,” she said quietly.  
“Sh. Don’t talk. Just breathe,” he directed, though her breathing had already begun to return to normal. “Okay?”  
“Fine,” she said, smiling reassuringly. “It was nothing, really. I just forget sometimes that I’m still a bit sore, and it catches me by surprise.”  
“Remember what the doctor said; slow, deep breaths.”  
Bridget rolled her eyes. “Oh, look who’s suddenly a yoga instructor now,” she scoffed.  
“Bridget, I’m serious. If you’re having difficulty breathing normally, that can create other complications.”  
“I think I know my own body, thank you very much,” Bridget snapped.  
Mark sighed, sliding an arm around her waist and gently pulling her to his side. “I’m sorry, darling,” he whispered. “You know I can’t help worrying about you.”  
“I know.” Bridget tilted her head up to peck his cheek. “It’s okay. I’m sorry too. Let’s not argue; it’s your birthday.”  
“Agreed.” Mark pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Just one thing. If you don’t feel up to this evening, why don’t we postpone?” Despite his protests, Bridget had convinced him that some celebration was in order; both Billy and Mabel would be having sleepovers at friends’ houses so that he and Bridget could have a quiet, relaxing, “grownup dinner” at Magda and Jeremy’s. the guest list, as Mark had clearly stipulated, included only his parents, Bridget’s mother, and a few of his colleagues; Jude, tom, Talitha, and Daniel would complete the circle. Now, however, he wondered if having a cozy night in with Bridget wasn’t a more sensible option.  
“No, Mark,” she said firmly, obviously guessing his line of thought. “We’ve been through this. If you want to be an old curmudgeon for the rest of your life, fine, but not tonight. Tonight we’re celebrating your birthday.”  
“Bridget, please. You’ve recuperated so well; I just don’t want you to suffer a setback.”  
“Mark, I’m going to be sitting on Magda and Jeremy’s sofa, probably permanently attached to a bottle of chardonnay, not swimming the fucking English Channel.”  
“Bridget--”  
“Mark, no. We agreed; no arguing.”  
He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I’m not arguing. I’m merely voicing my concern about your health and strongly urging you to take my concern into consideration.”  
Bridget folded her arms and glared back at him. “Don’t go all hoity-toity barrister on me now. Besides, you don’t want to be rude, Mr Darcy. What happened to your scrupulous sense of decorum?”  
Mark scowled. “I should have known you’d latch onto my impeccable, English breeding precisely when I’m feeling least inclined to follow it. Well played, although, if memory serves me, Mr Darcy quite detests parties; he’d much rather go to bed.”  
“Oh,” laughed Bridget, “come on, Mark. You’ve become much more sociable.”  
“I don’t think I have, actually. Why does this mean so much to you anyway? All things considered, this isn’t exactly my top priority, and there’ll be--”  
“Other birthdays?” she finished. “Mark, how can you say that after everything we’ve been through? After we almost lost you once, after losing my dad, after, you know…” She trailed off, gesturing to herself. “We can’t take anything for granted. We have so much to celebrate, Mark.” She reached over to take his hand. “We’re together; we have our health; we have the children; we have friends who love us—and who, by the way, have gone to a lot of trouble to make today special for you—and we have each other.” As she gazed up at him, Mark saw more than earnest pleading in her eyes; he saw, for the merest instant, a flicker of panic.  
“Bridget?” Placing a finger under her chin, he tilted her face up to study her expression. “What’s going on? What’s this all about?”  
“Nothing,” she replied, quickly and all-too suspiciously averting her eyes.  
Mark chuckled. “I’ll say it again, darling; you’re an appalling liar, but now I’m curious. I suppose we’ll have to go then, but only--” Before he could finish, Bridget pounced on him, swallowing the remainder of his protest with her kiss.  
“Right, that’s settled.”  
“Bridget, you didn’t let me--”  
“Sh. Nope. End of discussion,” she declared, laying a finger over his lips. “You’re going, and I don’t want to hear another word of protest. Now come on. Let’s go down before Mabel eats all of your cupcakes.”  
\----------  
Bridget fiddled with the clasp on her handbag, jiggling her foot impatiently as Mark pulled to a stop in front of Magda and Jeremy’s house. They’d driven almost entirely in silence, her fingers crossed in her lap as the culmination of weeks of planning approached. She knew, in part due to her abysmal lying, that Mark suspected something, though she couldn’t work out how much he’d guessed. He’d left her alone to her frantic thoughts, but now he reached across the seat and closed his fingers over hers.  
“Are you all right, darling?” he asked gently.  
“Fine. Super,” she said, offering him a tight smile.  
He frowned, brows drawn together. “You’ve been unusually quiet. Anything the matter?”  
Bridget shook her head. “No, it’s just—well, you’re not cross with me for dragging you out tonight, are you?” This concern wasn’t entirely fabricated; she did wonder how reluctantly Mark had agreed to attend tonight’s dinner, though she hoped that any irritation he felt would recede into the background once the surprise had been unveiled.  
Now he raised one hand to cup her cheek as he bent to lay his lips on hers. “Of course not, darling. I didn’t mean to be such a stick in the mud.”  
“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice quavering slightly; damn it, she needed to keep herself together, but expecting her to keep a secret without cracking was like expecting her to eat only one chocolate a day in an Advent calendar. “Because I mean, this is all about you, and I really, really want you to just enjoy the night and, well…” She punctuated her unfinished sentence with a shrug. Wordlessly Mark reached down and enfolded her in his arms, and she rested her head against his chest, inhaling the dark, woodsy fragrance of his aftershave. Her palms began to tingle, and only when Mark caught her wandering hand and brought it to his lips did she realize her fingers had been reaching for the buttons on his shirt.  
“Oops,” she giggled, pulling her hand back. “I didn’t mean to do that.”  
“Mmmhm,” murmured Mark, kissing the end of her nose. “Don’t misunderstand me; I still want the rest of my present, but I don’t think this is quite the right time to unwrap it.”  
As they walked together up the path to the front door, Mark drew Bridget’s arm through his own—an endearingly chivalrous gesture that she never tired of, and in the chilly evening air, she appreciated the added warmth as he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. She kept her gaze locked on his face as he pressed the doorbell, but despite her preparedness, the chorus of “Surprise!” that greeted them as they walked through the door nearly knocked her off balance. Distracted in the act of steadying her, Mark apparently hadn’t processed what had just happened, but when he turned to the source of the commotion, his usually impassive face registered a hilarious mixture of incredulity and delight, as if it hadn’t ever had to handle so much emotion and couldn’t work out just the right expression.  
“I… I don’t… believe this,” he stammered finally.  
“Big fucking surprise,” came Sharon’s voice. “Mark Darcy can’t believe people love him enough to fly across a fucking ocean to celebrate his fucking birthday.” As everyone applauded, she weaved a bit tipsily across the room, flinging her arms around Mark in a surprisingly enthusiastic hug, particularly for Sharon.  
“Sharon,” Mark said carefully, “are you drunk?”  
“’course I am, stupid! Happy Birthday!”  
“Crikey, Shaz,” he laughed, returning her embrace, “I think I’ve actually missed you… a bit.”  
“Bastard,” grumbled Sharon, winking at Bridget.  
“Come on, babe,” said her husband Greg, coming up behind her and gently prizing her off of Mark. “I think your glass is empty. Let’s go refill it. Happy Birthday, mark,” he added, leaning in to offer a one-armed hug while he kept the other wound securely around Sharon’s waist. “Great to see you.”  
“And you,” said Mark. “I can’t believe you came all this way.”  
Notwithstanding his general aversion to finding himself the center of attention, Mark graciously accepted hugs, handshakes, and pecks on the cheek from various guests. Most of them, with the exception of Sharon and Greg, weren’t a surprise. Everyone he held dear, in one way or another, had managed to attend: his parents, Bridget’s mother, and Una Alconbury, who as usual pressed a hand to her bosom and gave a tinkling laugh when Mark kissed her cheek, insisting he didn’t look a day over 40 and prompting Mark to whisper teasingly to Bridget that either her mind or her eyeglass proscription was in need of a check. Jude, Tom, Daniel, and Talitha were present, as were most of his colleagues in chambers. Even Cosmo and Woney—whom Bridget had debated about including on the guest list—had put in an appearance, ultimately because she decided that Cosmo’s harrumphing and Woney’s simpering smugness lent their own charm and sense of tradition to the gathering. As Bridget watched her husband exchanging greetings with everyone, she felt a tap on her shoulder and glanced around; spotting the person standing just behind her, she nodded, gesturing toward Mark, who turned away from Giles at just the right moment. Bridget’s eyes filled as a broad smile stretched across Mark’s face and Constance flew into his open arms. After finishing university, she’d spent the past several months abroad, studying architecture; she’d just completed her tour of Florence and was on her way to Athens, but insisted on returning home when Bridget had disclosed the plan for Mark’s surprise party.  
“Constance, darling!” Mark exclaimed now, enveloping her in a tight hug. “What on Earth are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Greece.”  
“I was,” said Constance, raising herself on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “But when Mum and Auntie Bridget told me about your birthday, I couldn’t miss it.” For most of their lives, Constance and her brothers had considered Mark an adoptive uncle, and since Peter’s brief marriage hadn’t yielded any children before his divorce, Magda and Jeremy’s children had held the places of nieces and nephews in Mark’s heart. Constance had always been especially fond of him; now an intelligent, sophisticated young woman in her early twenties, she still enjoyed chatting animatedly with him. All that had changed was the topic of conversation, now focusing on her studies and career ambitions rather than the merits of Pingu, and Bridget had always loved the way that Constance, like Mabel, had tenderly excavated a rarely-glimpsed softness in Mark’s nature. As he gazed down at her now, tears welled in his eyes.  
“Happy Birthday, Uncle Mark,” whispered Constance, leaning in to hug him again.  
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he murmured, stooping to kiss the top of her head. “Thank you so much. I’m so very glad you’re here.” Over her shoulder, his eyes met Bridget’s, and the smile he gave her might have lasted her another sixty years.  
As Constance detached herself to say hello to Jude and Sharon, Mark slipped an arm around Bridget and pulled her to his side. “Well done, darling,” he whispered, kissing her cheek.  
“You were really surprised?” she asked, eyes narrowed skeptically as she looked up at him.  
Mark chuckled. “Well, I wouldn’t recommend trying to transition into a career with British Intelligence, but I must say I’m impressed. I knew you must be up to something, but I never expected all of this. I still can’t believe Sharon came all this way, and Constance…” Tears glistened in his eyes again, and Bridget reached up to pat his cheek.  
“You almost gave me a heart attack this morning, Mark Darcy, when you said you didn’t think we should come,” she scolded. “I thought I was going to have to club you over the head with a broomstick and drag you here.”  
“I feel terribly guilty about that now,” said Mark, squeezing her shoulders. “I’m sorry, darling. Had I known--”  
“It wouldn’t have been a surprise.”  
“I honestly thought you were going to have to club him, Bridge,” said a voice just behind her. “But it looks like he came of his own free will. That might be a first for Mr antisocial Mark Darcy.”  
Mark’s eyes widened as his gaze landed on the speaker; he blinked, frowned, made a failed attempt to speak, cleared his throat, and said finally, “Peter?”  
“In the flesh,” said Peter, grinning and striding forward to pull his brother into what looked like a rib-cracking hug. “God, Mark, it’s good to see you.”  
Mark, who still appeared to be flailing in a sea of emotions and struggling to regain his equilibrium, said weakly, “what-what are you doing here?”  
“All your wife’s doing,” answered Peter, turning now to Bridget and sweeping her off her feet. She laughed as Mark’s expression settled reflexively into a stern, elder brotherly look of caution, at which Peter chuckled and gently set her down.  
“My apologies,” he said, stooping to peck her cheek. “Didn’t break anything, did I?”  
Bridget giggled. “Everything’s intact,” she assured him. At a glance, anyone unaware of the relationship would never have guess Mark and Peter to be brothers despite the surface resemblance. Peter, while seeming to be cut from the same cloth, had followed an entirely different pattern. His dark hair, like Mark’s, was shot through with grey, but he’d chosen—to his father’s dismay and his mother’s surprising amusement—to wear it longer and pulled back into a ponytail. He sported an earring (which Elaine Darcy openly detested but secretly admired), and beneath his long-sleeved, crisp white shirt, the only part of his ensemble that seemed at all Darcyish, Bridget knew there was a tattoo of a dragon on his forearm; in different clothes, he might have passed for the lead singer of a rock band rather than an investment banker. The tattoo in particular had caused something of an uproar at home the last time Peter had visited London. Billy, on spotting his uncle’s body art, had immediately declared it to be “super cool” and boldly announced that he planned to get one as soon as he was old enough. He’d peppered Peter with endless questions about the process and whether or not it hurt, until Mark, entering the room and overhearing the conversation, had avowed that he would disinherit both of his children if they as much as put a colored pencil to their skins, and then promptly ended the discussion by pouring himself a scotch.  
Now Peter stood back and placed his hands on Bridget’s shoulders, giving her an appraising look not unlike his brother’s despite the cheery crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “You, my dear, look wonderful.”  
“I feel wonderful,” said Bridget.  
“I’m so glad you’re up and about. Mark hasn’t been giving you too hard a time of it, has he? I know he can be a bit, well…”  
“Solicitous,” interjected Mark.  
Peter chuckled. “Ah, overbearing was actually the word I was searching for, but once again my elder brother has managed to comport himself with far more tact than I carry in my little finger.”  
“I wonder,” said Mark, the teasing glint in his eye belying his disapproving frown, “how you ever manage to conduct business if you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head for more than five minutes.”  
“Oh, I don’t know,” Peter replied airily. “It’s funny how easily you can fool people into thinking you’re important if you stride around in a suit with a mobile pressed to your ear, pointing bossily at people all day, but you’ll know all about that, Mr top-notch barrister. At least I don’t have to wear a wig.”  
“Harrumph!” boomed Admiral Darcy, galumphing over, red in the face; Bridget wondered if he might be about to spontaneously burst into a recitation of Kipling’s “If” and willed herself not to look at Mark; one sly glance out of the corner of her eye, however, revealed that her husband’s thoughts appeared to have followed a similar line as his mouth twitched at the corners. “Your brother’s right, Peter,” the Admiral went on, wildly flailing one arm until it came to rest around his oldest son’s shoulders. “It’s astonishing really how different you boys turned out; I always said, if I hadn’t seen you both come out of your mother with my own eyes--”  
“That’s quite enough, Malcolm,” said Elaine, breezing over serenely and placing a hand on her husband’s arm. “Let the boys catch up. Oh, Happy Birthday, Dear,” she added, leaning in to peck Mark on the cheek. “Didn’t get a chance to pop over when you came in.”  
“Thank you, Mother.”  
“I’m so glad everything’s all out in the open now; I’ve been terribly afraid for weeks I might let something slip.”  
“Well,” Mark smiled, “you had me completely in the dark. I never expected this.”  
“Your wife deserves all of the credit,” said Elaine. “It was all her idea. Well done, dear,” she added, pulling Bridget into a gentle hug.  
“I’m just glad it’s all worked out so well,” said Bridget. “And that reminds me, I should probably, um… say a few words.” Moving into the center of the room, she raised a tentative hand. “Um, everyone? If I could just--”  
“Oy, you lot! Shut it!” bellowed Sharon while Cosmo unhelpfully clanged a spoon against his wine glass. “Right,” Bridget squeaked, feeling a lump rise to her throat. With a deep breath, she let her eyes travel around the room until they landed on Mark; as his gaze met hers, she swore she saw his mouth form the words ‘Inner poise.’  
“Right, well, thank you all so much for being here tonight. When Mark and I were first flung unceremoniously at each other’s heads over twenty years ago, if you’d told us then where we’d be now, we’d both probably have said you were mad; we did, actually, as both of our mothers never tire of reminding us.” She caught Una, her mother, and Elaine Darcy exchanging their customary smug ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ look. “I thought long and hard about how to make today special for Mark, because, I mean, what do you give a man who’s given you everything and more than you ever asked for? Then I realized that the one thing Mark needs is the one thing he can’t ever seem to wrap his head around: to know how very, very much you all love him. Mark has been an important part of all of your lives; he’s been a valuable colleague, a reliable friend, a model son, a dependable brother, and an affectionate father. He’s not a bad husband either, actually.” She paused, blushing as her eyes met Mark’s again. “I, uh, I know I’m rambling a bit, and Mark, I’m sure I’m embarrassing you right now, and if you could make yourself disappear, you probably would.”  
“I think,” said Mark, his gaze locked on hers, “that you’ll find I can surprise you there.” Swiftly, purposefully, his eyes never leaving her face, he crossed the room, drew her into his arms, and kissed her. The shock of it shot a bolt of heat straight through her, and for several moments the room dissolved; nothing existed for her except the taste of his mouth on hers and his hands cupping her face.  
“Oh my godfathers!” exclaimed Pam above the shouts and applause and a wolf whistle from—Bridget suspected—Cosmo.  
“Um, right,” said Bridget breathlessly, her blush deepening. “As I was saying, um…”  
“Happy Birthday, Mark, old boy!” boomed Giles tipsily.  
“Happy Birthday!” everyone echoed.

\----------  
Mark crept down the hall and into the bedroom, careful to avoid waking Bridget. She’d quickly retreated upstairs when they’d arrived home from the party, leaving Mark and Peter to linger over a nightcap. The evening had been a decided success; Bridget’s toast had inspired an impromptu string of speeches culminating in a rousing, slightly inebriated rendition of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” bravely led by the admiral. He moved about the room making as little noise as possible as he undressed, expecting to tumble headlong into sleep the moment his head touched the pillow. Tiptoeing into the loo, he only just registered that Bridget had forgotten to switch off the light and went about cleaning his teeth, only to choke on a mouthful of toothpaste as he glanced into the mirror. He’d assumed that Bridget had gone directly to bed when she’d retired upstairs; yet there she was, reclining in their luxuriant but little-used bathtub, her skin smooth and pink as ripe fruit beneath the water, her lips just parted in a satisfied smile.  
“Mark?” Bridget frowned, propping herself on one elbow to study his face. “Are you okay?”  
Mark realized that he’d been standing still, staring down at her without speaking for at least a minute. “I—yes, I just—you just gave me a shock.”  
“Oh. I thought maybe you were having a stroke or something.”  
“What are you doing?” he managed to ask, the back of his throat tingling slightly from the mouthful of toothpaste he’d just swallowed.  
“Giving you your birthday present,” she replied.  
“I see.” Mark arched a brow and rested his hip against the sink. “Is this a private party?”  
“It is,” said Bridget. “But,” her eyes traveled down his bare chest to rest on the pajama bottoms he’d slipped into, “I’m afraid you’re really overdressed.”  
“That’s easily dealt with,” he said, removing and tossing them aside before lowering himself into the tub beside his wife.  
“Did you and Peter have a nice catch-up?” she asked.  
Mark nodded impatiently; he loved his brother, but at the moment he could have wished Peter anywhere but in a guestroom down the hall. The children, at least, were thankfully away for the night, and Mark was counting on the hope that only a nuclear explosion would manage to penetrate Peter’s scotch-soaked slumber.  
“Tonight was so perfect,” Bridget continued. “I mean, I was really worried I’d make such a mess of it, and you’d find out, and I came so close to telling you everything and--”  
“Bridget,” he said, touching a finger to her lips, “can you do something for me?”  
“What is it?” she asked, eyes shining.  
“I need you to stop talking,” he said, “because I have something very, very important I’d like to say.” Before she could reply, he lowered his head and locked his mouth on hers, sliding his arms around her back, pressing her against his chest, feeling her heart pulsing beneath her breast. As he caught her lower lip between his teeth, her hands slid from his shoulders and down the thatch of damp hair on his chest, her fingertips dancing over his stomach until he felt the heat of her touch against the insides of his thighs. His own hands were working feverishly, massaging the warm, wet bead between her legs until she twisted urgently against him and he felt her need throbbing against his fingers.  
“Bridget,” he groaned, struggling against the wave of his rising climax. Eyes locked on his, Bridget thrust her hips forward, wrapping her legs around his waist in a swift, dizzying motion that sent water splashing over the sides of the tub as he plunged himself into her. Feeling Bridget moving beneath him, white hot and pulsing with life, Mark vowed then and there to never again let himself take a single moment for granted. Until tonight, he hadn’t ever considered sex exactly life-affirming, and yet he realized now how much he had needed this; to hold Bridget, to feel her solid, tangible, dependable presence. What a gift indeed, to have her here with him to cherish for as many moments, as many days, as many years as they had left.  
When at last they had spent themselves, they lay in each other’s arms, their bodies rocking gently in the water—or what remained of it. Lulled by the movement, Bridget closed her eyes and dropped her head onto Mark’s shoulder. His throat tightened as he gazed down at her, warm and soft and sleepy as she nestled in the crook of his arm.  
“I think we’ve graduated from the paddling pool,” she murmured drowsily.  
Mark chuckled. “I think you’re right.” As he bent to press a kiss to her temple, his mind wandered back over the past several weeks, stumbling over that morning: that phone call from Daniel, when for one paralyzing moment Mark felt his perfect, well-ordered universe spin wildly out of control. His breath suddenly caught in his throat, and he drew back, cradling Bridget’s face between his hands. Having once assured himself that she was out of danger, Mark had, for the most part, buried his emotions beneath the need to focus on her recovery, and as she’d said that day in the hospital, it all might have been much worse. He knew now what he needed to do—what he ought to have done months ago, but better late than never.  
“Bridget?”  
“Mmm?”  
“Bridget, there’s something I need to tell you—something important.”  
Eyes open now, she lifted her head, biting her lower lip as she stared up at him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”  
“Sh, nothing’s wrong,” he whispered, pulling her closer. “I promise. It’s only—well, I’ve been doing some thinking, and maybe it’s time I start to trim back my caseload a bit—at least, take on less work that requires me to travel.”  
Bridget frowned. “But Mark, you love your work.”  
“I do,” he agreed, “but it gets more and more taxing and, frankly, I don’t have the stamina I used to.”  
“Really, Mark?” Bridget arched a brow and gave him a playful nudge in the ribs. “If you can’t remember what we just did here, I don’t think your energy levels are the problem.”  
“Yes, well, I have special reserves for… certain activities.”  
“But seriously, Mark, why now? What’s this about? Unless…” She paused, lips pursed as she considered his words; then smiled knowingly. “You’re still feeling guilty about what happened—about the accident, not being here. Honestly, Mark, I love you, but you’re not Superman; your mere presence doesn’t just prevent bad things happening to me or to the children. You know that. It could have happened just as easily with you here, or on another continent; it could have been you instead of me.”  
Mark sighed. “Bridget, it isn’t that; at least, that wasn’t the catalyst. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and I was actually considering talking to you about it when I came back from France, but then, well, it slipped my mind, naturally. I came back around to the idea though, after everything settled down a bit. If I’ve learned anything from these last few weeks, it’s that time isn’t a luxury.”  
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Bridget. “It’ll be lovely to have you home more, but I’d hate to think you’re just doing this because you feel you have to or you think you’ve been neglecting us or something, because that’s ridiculous.”  
“Bridget, listen to me.” Mark cradled her face in his hands, tilting her chin up so that their eyes met. “I’m doing this because I want to; it was going to happen eventually. In case you haven’t noticed, neither of us is getting any younger.”  
“Speak for yourself,” she grumbled, poking him in the side again. “And if you’re sure it’s going to make you happy; I mean, you love your job.”  
“Yes,” he said, dropping a kiss on the end of her nose. “But the thing is, I love you just a tiny bit more.”  
“Oh, Mark.” Bridget wound her arms around him in a tight hug. “This really has been a day of surprises.”  
“Indeed,” said Mark. “And thank you again, by the way, for everything.”  
“Happy Birthday,” she whispered, resting her head against his chest. “And there’d better be many, many more.”  
Mark laughed. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and kissed her.  


The End


End file.
